A diction for insipid conviction

All these stupid feelings with their stupid little words. I miss you  is so boring. So lame.  

So insipid and tame.

Equivalent to the repetition of moth to flame. 

 I need a diction to match the conviction of your treasonous affliction. 

Your conditions are my crusifiction. 

The friction restriction— the newest addition to your jurisdictions—

implode my self-infliction

 I choke down these prescriptions. 

A catatonic emission of probable remission 

My ambition locked under submission, this

 deposition an exhibition suspicion That our trebulation is beyond non-fiction. I need a physicain for Hell’s finest edition 

 Of  my unrequited love addiction.


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